Grand parade
by Flaminea
Summary: Warden-Commander Clarel de Chanson has always wanted to ride a griffon, just like her Warden heroes. She has always wanted to become a Grey Warden, and now she wants nothing more than fullfill her duty. Instead, she will always be remembered as the Warden-Commander who almost wiped out the Orlesian Wardens. And no one will know what had been her last thoughts.


_This story was written as part of the Secret Santa Story Exchange._ _So... Surprise!_

 _Merry Christmas, Orangeflavor!_

 _ **Grand parade**_

It all starts with the Chalice.

I still remember the warm sensation of the Joining Chalice around my hands. It felt hot, like a cup of the cider my parents used to make, but while the cider smelled of laughs, tranquility and peace the Joining Chalice somewhat emanated depravity. Part of me was shouting inside my head to not drink, to not make way for whatever was into the Chalice. That voice had been almost strong enough. Almost. My desire to make something significant of my life, to show the world that a mage was much more than a burden, to become a shining hero riding a griffon, my long hair left free in the wind just like I had seen in too many paintings, turned out to be stronger. So I drank, and I became what I had wanted for my whole life: a Grey Warden, one of the few able to fight a Blight without being corrupted and Thedas' only real shield against an Archdemon's clutches. In time, I learned to detect the presence of darkspawn and the Wardens became my true family. Now, I can say those were blissful days. Someone claims that ignorance is a blessing, and perhaps it's true.

It wasn't until I became Warden-Commander Clarel de Chanson that the receipt was handed to me. Lyrium, darkspawn blood and a single drop of blood from an Archdemon. Now, I know what I welcomed inside me when I drank from the Joining Chalice. I had been the one searching for the darkspawn blood used for my Chalice, so I knew that it was gonna be part of the ritual, thus the corruption was somewhat involved: but at the time I didn't really understood what _being tainted_ really meant and how much it is connected to our core. Today, I am surprised I never really wondered how we could be able to perceive our enemy, how I managed to banish the constant feeling of wrongness has permeated my skin, my blood, my muscles, my mind ever since. Now I know that the Joining Chalice is the entrance to the darkspawn Hive. The moment a recruit drinks that mixture, that recruit becomes forever connected to the Hive. That's why we can detect them. Sadly, the truth is far more monstrous than that. Being a member of the Hive is a matter of blood: it means becoming physically similar to our enemy and to the same ghouls whose life we're forced end, whether they are our best friends or complete strangers. Us Grey Wardens are as tainted as a darkspawn and a ghoul. Yes, the taint appears differently in each case: while darkspawn are full blood-tainted creatures made of corruption and ghouls get consumed by the taint ending up dying in a matter of few days, our bodies can handle it while we get to maintain our personality, our feelings, our humanity. But blood is thicker than water. There's no escaping its chant, there's no escaping our family. Us, the darkspawn, the ghouls, the Archdemon we're bonded by blood and as such we are part of the same family.

In the end, the taint draws us to them, no matter how much we run, no matter what we do.

And that's when the Calling enters the scene. It's the voice of the Old Gods, the same voice the darkspawn hear while searching for them. For a darkspawn it's the mean to reach the Gods, for us it's the signal that the taint is overwhelming us just like it happens to a ghoul, that it's time to join the blood of our blood. The majority of Wardens are told hearing the Calling means it's their time to die, that the corruption has grown too strong for their bodies. The Wardens descend underground to the purpose of killing as many darkspawns as possible before death strikes. But now I know that when the Calling hits, it's not simply about dying. The lie is necessary, because the prospect of death is better than the knowledge that we're not that different from a darkspawn or a ghoul. One could almost say they're our true family, 'cause we share their blood. The Calling is not just about dying, it's our natural epilogue, us succumbing our nature. But the recruits cannot know. They're told that they're called to commit at a higher cause, that they will be the heroes who will save the world from the taint. No recruit wants to look in the mirror and see a monster. And certainly not monarchs nor commoners can know: who would trust the Wardens if it was known that in their veins run the same blood as the darkspawn? After all, aren't fratricides and parricides the worst offenders of all?

The world wants heroes. We want to be heroes.

Even I.

* * *

Even now, I can feel the chant. It's more enthralling than any lover's voice, and in order to avoid obeying its words and leaving for the Deep Roads I need to stay constantly focused. I cling on to my role as Commander: I cannot abandon them.

I spent hours and hours into Adamant Fortress' library, I asked the advice of every mage Warden, but I still don't understand. I remember how the former Warden-Commander Genevieve experienced a premature Calling caused by the amulets that Kinloch Hold's former First Enchanter Remille had given her and the Wardens accompanying her, but as far as I know that's the only instance of a weird-timed Calling. Unlike Genevieve and her companions, though, we have no magical trinket around our necks. And yet all our minds are filled with the Calling, newly recruits and veterans as well. Something like this has never happened in the history of the order, so I'm at a loss of answers. All I know is that the Orlesian Wardens are giving in to the Calling, one by one. Day after day our ranks wear thin. I sent a bunch of my Wardens to Ferelden, entrusting them a letter explaining what's happening here in Orlais, but there's no way to know if the Calling has reclaimed them too, or if the same phenomenon is plaguing Fereldan Wardens. We might be the last Wardens left on Thedas.

The only almost proved certainty is that a Blight is about to hit Thedas. So, I must act and do my duty.

Even thinking about Livius Erimond disgusts me, but his solution remains our best chance. What I'm about to do goes against every principle I was taught at White Spire: never allow a demon near, never consort with demons, blood magic is evil. The mere idea of killing my brothers and sisters, my flesh and blood, to bind our mages to demons repels me. I had no pleasure in exiling Grey Wardens veterans whose side I have fought all my life, but they don't seem to understand: being the Warden-Commander I have to do my duty, even if it means doing the unthinkable. It will be hard enough without having to face an internal conflict and fight other Wardens too.

I wonder if Sophia Dryden felt the same way: unsure and remorseful. She was trapped inside Soldier's Peak, without the chance to send away any possible opposition and her back to the wall. Today, she's considered a shame for the order, someone who forgot the Warden's real enemy and chose to meddle with politics instead. I myself have always condemned her for having used her own brothers and sisters' blood to evoke demons: it's ironic how I'm about to do something very similar.

It doesn't matter. It's a price I'm willing to pay.

Should the worst happen, should we all perish, we will do so in purifying the whole world. Maybe no one will ever know what the Grey Wardens did, but we'll still be the heroes who have spared Thedas every future Blight by hunting down the remaining Old Gods before they could turn into Archdemons. Our battle will end forevermore, we will never fear them again: no more Old Gods, no more wars. 

_**§§**_

As I ordered them, they have gathered in the courtyard. They know they're here either to die or to become something similar to an abomination, but I see no ill-will in their eyes. They understand they're sacrificing their lives for a higher cause, that it's only another way to fight the darkspawn.

 _Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you._

Together, our voices united into a single one, we recite the oath that binds us all. It's the only thing stronger than our blood. These are our last moments before we surrender ourselves to the Void in making the most extreme sacrifice our order could face. But looking each other in the eyes, we know that somehow we won't forget each other. Just like we honor the sacrifice of who dies at the hand of the darkspawn or by killing an Archdemon, we won't forget each other. We are one and our will is strong.

Erimond cuts in, and I hate him even more for that. He doesn't belong here. I hate having to resort to his means and I hate even more that he's right: there's little time left, because the Inquisition will be here in a matter of minutes and will try to stop us from doing what's necessary. Jana, the newly recruited elven girl, comes forward. Looking into her eyes, I see that she would have never expected to serve the Warden as a magic vessel. I really wish there was another way, any other way.

When I slit her throat, her blood soils my finger. The blood is true, the flesh is real. It's the point of no return, I'm compromised. And now the Orlesian Warden are ready to follow their Commander. Maybe, after all, I'll be the hero I always wished to be, someone like Gaharel, Corin and Loris. My only solace is that thanks to the strength of demons by our side, there's no way we can be defeated.

As the first bodies fall to the ground and the ritual begins, the Inquisitor and Stroud enter the courtyard. On their lips, the name Corypheus.

* * *

Every step, every roaring from the battlefield behind me screams how I've been deceived, how I've allowed Erimond to misguide me. Do our sacrificed brothers know? I hope that at least death granted them the blessing of ignorance, I hope they died with the awareness of being heroes. I hope they'll never know how their noble sacrifice was nothing but a tool to enslave their brothers and sisters' minds to the darkspawn Corypheus. I hope they're not looking at the Warden mages fighting in the name of their enemy. As Warden-Commander, I have failed everyone under my command: the brothers who were looking at me with utter trust in their eyes even before having their throat slit, as well as the ones who were ready to be bound to a demon if only it had served to stop the Blights once and for all. But as a Warden, I have failed the whole world. The only reason why all Orlesian Wardens are not enslaved to Corypheus is the Inquisitor.

I'm compromised. All that remains is making Erimond pay for what he's done.

When his dragon spits a burning blaze so near to me that I feel its heat on my hand, I almost lose sight of the bastard. But suddenly, there he is: he's heading atop the fortress, where there's no escape route for him. When my sphere of spiritual energy punches him right into his chest, I know he has no chance to get out of here alive, let alone harm me. But as I approach him, the staff held in my hands and ready to strike the coup de grace, there's no resignation into that gaze. His eyes are still filled with defiance, his lips curves into a bloodied smile as he points out how the responsibility for the Wardens' ruin is all mine. He's right. And that's the reason why my next magic flow, nurtured by the rage of failure, fries his brain. Let him return to his master in spirit. Me, I will never serve the Blight.

As I raise my eyes, I meet the Inquisitor's gaze with mine. But one moment later, something very similar to an earthquake shakes the fortress's floor and before I know it I'm engulfed inside the dragon's mouth: a visceral terror pervades my mind, a rotten stink turns my stomach inside out, the beast's slobber almost suffocates me, but everything pales in comparison to the unbearable pain that hits me as its fangs destroy my abdomen. They pierce my skin one, two, three times and my whole world comes down to the dragon's jaws. All of a sudden, fresh air fills my damaged lungs and all around me is the night sky: for a moment, I wonder if I finally got to fly upon a griffon, my long hair left free in the night's wind. Then, my back collides with something hard and I am painfully aware of my wounds once again. My head is reclined back on the stone, so through my foggy eyes I can see the Inquisitor withdrawing. One moment later, a monstrous dragon paw sets down beside me. My tainted blood kicks in: it may as well be the link between me and my enemy, but it's also a reminder to what being a Grey Warden means. I can't let the man who had saved my order from destruction die without even trying to help him. I'm not stupid, I know mine is a mortal wound, so at least I'll die as every Warden should. Looking around, I see my staff on the ground: it's not that far, and even if every time I crawl closer to it my injuries open a little bit more I refuse to stop until I get a hold on my weapon.

And finally, the dragon notices me. While it's looking at me like I was a dying worm, I rally all the mana my remaining forces let me.

 _In war, victory. In peace, vigilance._

Brothers, sisters, I failed you. I led you to ruin instead of victory. I haven't been vigilant enough against the deception of a man and a darkspawn.

 _In death, sacrifice._

But at least I will fulfill the last part of our motto, our oath.

I release my power, aiming right at the beast's heart. Before the eternal slumber claims me, I get to look at my enemy falling from Adamant Fortress' roof, right to its death.


End file.
